


The Sweet Kiss of Seafoam

by theoddling



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Inspired by a The Amazing Devil Song, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, The Little Mermaid AU, this fairytale does not have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26041750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoddling/pseuds/theoddling
Summary: Once upon time, Prince Jaskier of the Mer-Kingdom decided to see what humans were like, and made the mistake of falling in love, so much so that he is willing to risk everything, even his voice. But what happens when the object of his love chooses someone else?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [the-winter-witcher's 2k Follower Celebration](https://the-winter-witcher.tumblr.com/post/619202082104328192/2k-follower-celebrationwriting-challenge) on tumblr, using the prompt: “I’ve run out of words my song, just let me die, me die”

Once upon a time, in the depths of the ocean, there lived a kingdom of merfolk. These merfolk were completely isolated from the surface, but thrived in their watery domain. There were many architects, sculptors, and other artists who were held in high esteem in the kingdom, but the most cherished and lauded of all the merfolk was the youngest prince, whose name was all but forgotten by the world who called him Jaskier, after the cheerful yellow flowers they had seen on their visits near the human lands.

Young Prince Jaskier was energetic and friendly, a lover of fine things and adornments, always eager to hear some new story from his people who roamed, desperate to go on grand adventures, to see more of the ocean and learn of the human lands. Sometimes he even wished he could explore their lands himself, or at least go to the shore and see the blossoms which his nickname made him into. But where his heart truly lay was in music. Gifted with instruments and voice, he sang so often there were jokes that he could not speak, and all who heard him were enthralled by the beauty he wove from sound.

His father, a widower, and his grandmother and his many brothers all loved the young prince very much, and wanted nothing more than to protect him and keep him safe beside them for all his days. But as he grew older, he became more curious and full of daydreams and his every song became about the world above. Knowing how important it had become to him, they agreed that for one night only, as a gift on his sixteenth year, he would be granted an escort of three of the best warriors, to take him to see the surface, but he could only glimpse if from afar, for fear that humans might see him.

On that fateful day, Jaskier could not contain his excitement as he flited from place to place, waiting impatiently for the time they would set out. Once they had, he carried on for the entire journey, speculating on what they would see and repeatedly stating what he was most excited for (which was never the same thing twice), much to his guards’ amused annoyance.

When they surfaced, Jaskier finally fell silent with a gasp, so awestruck that he found himself at a total loss for words. Above their heads, great ribbons of light danced through the starry night sky. The curtains of eerily glowing greens and purples and blues waved and warped through the pinprick lights in a haunting echo of the pattern of the water that the four merfolk floated in.

None of them had ever heard of such a thing in any tale of the world, and while Jaskier wanted nothing more than to stay there, entranced by it forever, his guards bristled defensively.

“We should retreat, Your Highness,” one of them cautioned.

“It could be some sort of devilish enchantment,” the second continued.

“Don’t be silly,” Jaskier finally breathed. “Nothing evil could be so…incredible.”

“Still, we should keep moving if you want to see land before we must escort you back.”

Reluctantly, Jaskier lowered his eyes from the strange lightshow and followed as his guards led him across the waves.

The sight of the great coastal city as the dawn broke behind it was equally as awestriking as the aurora had been. The whitewashed stone houses were dip-dyed in hues of pink and golden in the morning light, windows sparkling like an inlay of diamonds. The gentle breeze carried the expected smells of sound and sea, but also brought ones he had never encountered before but made his mouth water all the same: sweet fruits, the sour tang of baking bread, the rich smoke of cooking meats. From somewhere within, a dog barked. Overhead a gull cried. The church bells began their gentle morning peal, sonorous and striking. It was a symphony and a muse at once. People stirred all about as they watched from their distant vantage. And the young prince fell in love.

~

Jaskier took a deep breath and tried to quell the fear aching in his gut as he swam into the darkness of the Sea Witch’s lair, the thorns which made up the cavern around him reaching out as if to grab him, tearing at his fins and skin like teeth. No matter how much he had pleaded, his father and grandmother had refused to let him return to the surface, to help him follow his great dream. And so he had journeyed, a last resort, to the Sea Witch’s home, and he was determined not to let anything get in his way.

“Why have you come Mer-Prince?” a voice boomed, echoing around him before he had made it far from the entrance.

“I seek the Sea Witch. I…I need her help,” he called back, hating the tremor in his voice.

“Then you shall have it,” the voice around him laughed and the thorns withdrew suddenly, as if called back. “Enter.”

He stayed the course before him as best he could in the pitch-blackness. Just when he began to fear that he would be swimming in ink forever, the way opened up into a broad cavern, lit by the soft green glow of phosphorescence. At its center, lounged like a queen, on a throne made of the bow of a wrecked ship, cushioned with waterlogged purple velvet, sat the Sea Witch.

She was pale, almost the white of bone that had been stripped clean of blood and flesh and polished over time. Her lower half was less a mermaid and more an eel with tattered vertical flukes and mottled green and brown flesh. Her face was gaunt but somehow still beautiful, all sharp angles and hard lines. Her eyes were silvery, molten and hot and reflective in the algae’s glow. As he watched, he realized that what he thought was hair was actually long, dark tendrils of a jellyfish, swirling about her head like a deadly cloud. Violent red lips curled back around a needle-toothed smile. 

“Please,” he asked, trying to be brave as he bowed low to her. “My name is Julian, though all who know me call me Jaskier. I am one of the Princes of the Merfolk and I have come to ask a favor of the mighty Sea Witch.”

“Oh? And what would one of the great Merfolk need of me?” she asked, sonorous voice tinged in mockery.

“I wish to be human, for a time, so that I might explore the surface world and learn of its wonders.”

She laughed, and Jaskier felt a heat creeping across his face and neck. Much to his discomfort, the laughter continued for some time before finally she stopped, leveling her unnerving gaze at him as if she could see into his heart.

“Tell me Little Fish, why should I help you do this?”

“Because it is all my heart desires. I would give you anything in return for this.” He spoke without thinking, uncaring of the consequences.

“I will do you this favor, then,” the Sea Witch purred, a predatory smirk dancing on her features. “I will give you legs Little Fish, for as long as you like, and your fins shall return when you again touch the ocean of your birth. _But_ if during your time on shore, you give your heart to another, and they do not return your love, your voice belongs to me, _forever._ ”

Jaskier gulped. He knew that a deal with the Sea Witch always came at cost, but he hadn’t thought she would take that which was most precious to him. Still, he reasoned, his time on the surface would not be long and if he was careful, he would not risk his heart or his voice. So he agreed to the Sea Witch’s deal, offering her a drop of his blood to seal the contract.

With a few muttered words and a wave of her hands, the deed was done.

“You have twelve hours to reach land, Little Fish, lest you find yourself below the waves with useless feet and mortal lungs.” She laughed at this and he darted from her lair.

He did not have time to go back to his home, to say goodbye or collect any things. Instead, as soon as he had passed the Maelstrom that guarded the Sea Witch’s domain, he shot for the surface, swimming desperately until he broke through the waves, feeling a strange new burning in his lungs. Stars whorled above him, more than he had seen the first time or ever dreamed there could be in the sky; he sucked in a deep breath and fought hard the urge to just float on his back and stare at them until the sun rose. But he had heard enough stories of drowned men that he knew not to, pushing in a direction he hoped was shore, hoped he could reach in time. The sun began to peak over the horizon to his right, and on he swam. It rose high in the sky, beating down on him, burning his skin, so unused to its rays, and still he kept going. Never before had swimming been a challenge, a struggle.

He felt sore and more exhausted than he ever had when he finally dragged himself out of the surf. The sand beneath burned as badly as the sun but he was beyond caring. No sooner had he dropped to rest on the shore when his body convulsed, a piercing agony splitting through him like a thousand knives. He thought he might have screamed, but it became too much and his world fell to darkness.

~

When next young Jaskier woke, he was laying in an unfamiliar place. Every inch of his being ached, despite the softness of the mattress he rested on, the blanket draped gently over him. Blinking in the bright yellow light, he struggled to sit when a gentle hand pressed against his shoulder, guiding him to lie back down.

“You should remain lying down,” the voice was soft, sweet, feminine. “I don’t know how you ended up on our beach, especially so…bare, but you were in quite bad shape.”

“Where am I?” he croaked, voice rough from disuse, letting himself sag beneath her touch.

“Oh! You’re in Castle Lettenhove. My maid and I found you when we were out for our evening stroll. We thought you were dead at first!”

He nodded as if her naming of a location meant anything to him, and his head spun at the small movement. “Well, as you can see, I am not.”

“No, but you were badly burnt in the sun, and likely to be sick from the heat. You are welcome to rest here until you have recovered, and we’ll find you clothing that will fit since whatever happened to you – you don’t have to tell me, I will not pry – it destroyed everything you might have been wearing before.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, “that is very kind.” She spoke to him for a while, utter nonsense to him (more likely gossip about lands and people he knew nothing of he suspected) and gradually her dulcet tones lulled him back into a healing sleep.

~

The next time he woke, there was an older man leaning over him, inspecting him, and he jumped, shrinking away from the shrewd gaze under bushy eyebrows.

“Do not worry,” he said evenly. “I am a mage, a healer currently in the service of the masters of this castle. I just need to see how your burns and scrapes are doing.”

Jaskier nodded reluctantly, still feeling distrust for the man, but knowing that healers were overall good, and that he desperately needed the care.

~

The pattern continued for a week. Jaskier would sleep, waking occasionally to eat or drink water. Most times, it was the young woman who tended him with her soft touch and sweet smile and her musical voice. Occasionally, he would wake to the inspection of the healer, and it would leave him feeling unsettled, as if the man guessed more of Jaskier’s nature than was safe.

After a time, it was deemed that he could begin to move about. The first morning, the woman, Mirina she had introduced herself as, brought him a billowy white shirt and blue pants, blushing slightly as she offered them to him.

“I had to guess at your sizing,” she explained. “But these are some of my brother’s old things and they should fit you. I hope they’re not too heavy on your wounds…”

He smiled gratefully and threw back the blanket to stand, causing her to shriek and throw up her hands.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked, tilting his head in puzzlement at her obvious distress.

“Yes!” her voice was high and tight and he frowned at having caused such a change to come over her. “You’re not wearing anything yet! I don’t know how things are done in whatever strange place you came from, but you can’t just…expose yourself to me!”

“Oh. My apologies,” he crooned, trying to set her at ease again. “I will cover myself over again until you leave the room then?”

She nodded rapidly, the red blush still patently obvious across her ears and neck and the bits of her face that peaked out from behind her hands. “Yes. Yes that would be good.”

Despite this incident, things were not awkward between the two young people. She stayed at his side, letting him lean upon her while he got used to the feeling of taking steps on feet, which he pretended was unsteadiness caused by his injuries and time abed and she resolutely did not mention the oddness of his repeated reminding her of that.

He learned that Mirina was a countess, and while the word itself meant nothing to him, he understood it to be a title of importance. And so he marveled at her willingness to spend her precious time with him, a boy whom to her knowledge was nothing and no one. It was one of many things about her that he marveled at if he was being honest, like her kindness and her beauty and her quick wit.

Soon, their friendship turned to romance, and one night, after a picnic on the very beach where she had found him, they had entwined, and she had taught him many things about how human pleasure (or maybe female pleasure, he didn’t know or dare to ask) differed from his own.

“Dandelion,” she murmured, wrapped in his arms later that evening, after several vigorous lessons. “You know that this cannot be, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked faux-innocently. Then with a chuckle he added, “I’d say it already is and has been.”

She sat up quickly then, one hand planted on his chest so she could stare back down into his blue eyes with a near-identical pair.

“I am serious. I am to marry a lord from a neighboring land, and while I may not ever love him, I will be a good wife, and that means I cannot love you either. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” He felt something bubbling in his chest and the air felt like it was pulled from his lungs. He sat up too now, bringing strong arms up to steady her as he did. He looked away from her, trying to crush the wide-eyed fright he felt.

“Jaskier…” her voice was something like a sigh or a groan but not quite either.

He sat in silence for a moment, swallowing several times and waiting.

“Maybe…maybe we should just head back inside…” he finally said.

Relief washed over him; he still had a voice. And yet, he sombered; he was going to lose the thing that was becoming precious to him, even if he did not love her yet.

It was not long after that when Mirina married Lord Vaughn, from some inland holding, and Jaskier attended the wedding, dressed in red and blue. Their romance had ended the night on the beach, almost as quickly as it had begun. Seeing how proud she was of her wedding, he felt happy for her, and genuinely wished her well as she boarded the carriage to her honeymoon and the start of her new life.

Shortly after that, he set out himself. He thanked the staff for all they had done for him, carefully avoiding the unnerving healer, and left Mirina a letter, explaining why he needed to go. After all, he had come to see human lands and go on grand adventures, and he had almost lost it all before he even left the seaside.


	2. Chapter 2

A year later, Jaskier was being pelted with bread.

He had acquired a lute after leaving Lettenhove and taught himself to play, making money travelling about and performing. But the audience did not always receive his songs well, and there had been more than one occasion where he was booed off the stage or out of the room.

As he dodged the projectile rolls, gathering them up to eat later since he had no coin for food, and made comments back at the audience that he at least thought were just as biting, his eyes lit on a single silent stranger in a corner of the room. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of a wave-cap in the moonlight. He seemed to be staring down at the worn table in contemplation, and Jaskier felt drawn to him. Moving, as if hypnotized, he crossed the tavern to speak with the stranger.

The stranger’s deep growl threw Jaskier, not nearly what he had been expecting, a sound like rolling of boulders or the spitting of the deep underwater fissures and spouts that had been one of the great dangers of his childhood home. He found himself cringing internally at his absolutely cheesy lines, but the stranger seemed unfazed.

And then Jaskier realized with a heart-dropping moment of fear that this gorgeous stranger was one of the fabled witchers, monster hunters of the highest caliber. But, he thought, he was in too deep to back down. So instead, he pressed harder, sure that his eagerness would throw the other man off the scent of Jaskier being anything other than a fascinated, danger-seeking, human man.

This decision turned out to be the beginning of something more, something truly special.

The pair developed an unusual but nonetheless unbreakable bond over the following years. Geralt was taciturn on the best of days, preferring to communicate in hums, grunts, and glares. Jaskier did not let this faze him, chattering and charming his way across the continent at his side. His open warmth proved on more than one occasion to be just as lifesaving as Geralt’s swords, when villagers tried to drive off (or worse, kill) the witcher instead of paying him, when they lacked the coin to pay for necessary food or medicine, when on his darkest days Geralt found himself wondering if his miserable life was worth carrying on with. Geralt would never admit it, but the bard’s presence was well worth the extra hassle he created, getting constantly embroiled in dangers both monstrous and amorous.

~

It happened gradually, rather than all at once. One day, Jaskier noticed how the light struck Geralt’s hair and made it shine like diamonds. That night, when he played the small tavern, his voice cracked on a high note that was usually so easy to hit. Another time, noticed Geralt slipping the pouch of coins he had been paid by the alderman to the weary widow of one of the monster’s victims, and later managed to sound completely flat on the beginning of “Fishmonger’s Daughter.” (Luckily, the audience was too drunk to notice, but still his nerves fluttered.) It got worse as time went along too, even when the pair had gone their separate ways for a time. Jaskier’s mind would wander to what Geralt might be up to and his throat would be sore or his voice scratchy and he would have to end a performance early.

The night he had to cancel a performance completely, Geralt had saved his life from a pack of ghouls. The witcher’s hands had gently explored for injuries, a tenderness in his eyes not often seen. Jaskier had basked in the attention selfishly, letting it warm him more than a sunny rock at noon, rather than assure the other man he was fine and have it end. That night, he had opened his mouth to sing, just his warm-up scales before he went on stage, and no sound came out. Wide-eyed he’d tried again and again with different notes, and eventually he managed to sing…something. But by then he was near panicked, much too frazzled to perform. He made his excuses, citing the trauma of nearly dying, and gone to bed early, crying himself to sleep, the salt of his tears a painful reminder of his ocean home.

The following morning, he resolved to share his feelings, deciding it would be better to just get it all over at once, rather than suffer and wait. Besides, he reasoned with a small spark of hope, there was a chance that all this agony was for naught and if he knew, Geralt would return his affections. Dressing in only high-waisted pants and nearly see-through undershirt, bare feet padding gently against the wooden floors of the inn, he wandered down the hall to the witcher’s room and knocked. As soon as his knuckles made contact, his mind began to race with anxieties. What if Geralt was still asleep and got angry for being woken? Or if his affections weren’t returned after all? This was a mistake, he told himself, and he should just go.

As soon as his mind was made up to leave, the door swung open. Geralt stood there, hair disheveled from sleep and, Jaskier realized as he reigned in his racing heart and took in the full sight, clad only in a bedsheet wrapped hastily around his waist.

Jaskier blushed a deep red and stuttered, “Ah…ah…G…G…Geralt! Good morning!”

“Is something wrong?” Geralt’s growl was deeper than usual, sleep roughening his voice.

“Not wrong, per say…I just…was thinking this morning and…”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. And then Jaskier heard it, a soft, feminine sigh from the other side of the door.

“Who is it Geralt?” the voice asked, a sultry murmur, tempting him back into the room, back to bed.

“No one, Yennefer. It’s just Jaskier,” he said, turning to look behind him.

Jaskier’s eyes widened, and his fought the pain welling up like a wound within him.

“Did you need something important bard? Or can it wait?”

Jaskier said nothing, unsure if he even could at this point, and fled back down the hall to his room.

He threw himself onto the bed and sobbed, body shaking which only worsened as silence fell, sudden and complete. He choked, gasping for air as terror replaced the pain, and then, just as quickly, he started to grow cold and the emptiness settled in. He knew this would happen, even as he’d lied to himself in the Sea Witch’s lair that he could avoid it, the deal he’d made his own death-warrant. He just hadn’t expected it to hurt so much.

~

A few days later, Geralt and Jaskier, now joined by Yennefer – who perched like a queen upon Roach’s back as Geralt walked beside and Jaskier fell in step behind – set out, following the rumors of a great monster terrorizing the fishing villages by the shore. The practice of fishing frightened Jaskier, having heard stories about merfolk caught in nets and killed or captured as slaves and curiosities, and his heart still ached, more so at the fact that his constant companion seemed not to notice the change over him, and he trembled with exhaustion, bone-deep.

He considered that this would be the perfect opportunity to slip away, to let his feet, limbs he now hated fiercely, touch the waves and retreat back to his childhood home. But he could not. For all that his heart had been shattered by Geralt’s obvious devotion to Yennefer – which shown in the witcher’s eyes and made them, to Jaskier’s dismay, all the warmer and more beautiful – it still also belonged to the human world and he did not want to abandon it now, feeling more like he belonged there than he ever had in the Kingdom of the Merfolk.

That night, in an inn not far from the sea, Jaskier was restless, awoken in the middle of the night by what sounded like someone whispering his name. Curious and confused, he followed the sound out to the shore, where there was a little wooden rowboat. He climbed aboard and set about rowing, until he reached quite a depth and there, waiting, were two of his brothers and a number of his friends.

“What are you all doing here?” he wanted to ask, crying it with his eyes and hoping they understood. “How ever did you find me?”

“Jaskier! Darling Jaskier!” they cried back, reaching out to throw arms around him. He flinched, fearing that the droplets glistening off of them would be enough to return him to his natural form. “We heard what happened. We’ve come to help you fix it!”

He frowned, brows knitting together in confusion.

“So it’s true then. The Witch has claimed your voice,” his eldest brother, Eckhart, said, voice dark with hate.

Jaskier nodded sadly, gesturing to try and explain that it was his own stupid fault.

“We won’t let her keep it.”

Jaskier shook his head to tell them there was nothing they could do.

“We will go to her, make her a new offer,” his friend Ashe exclaimed.

“Yes, something good enough that she won’t refuse it, in exchange for your voice,” Lars added.

“Come into the water, come with us,” his third-eldest brother, Stefan, offered, holding out a hand. “Come home Jaskier. You have had your adventure, but you are hurting now. Let us take care of you.”

He nodded, reaching out to take the offered hand, swallowing the lump in his throat as he was pulled, almost playfully out of the boat. He submerged in the cold waters, their weight familiar, but as he surfaced again, brushing the sopping locks of hair out of his face, nothing happened. His legs remained separate and his voice remained silenced and he sobbed mutely, pressed into his brothers’ arms as they tried to protect him from the harsh reality.

Suddenly the air rumbled with a malicious cackle and the Sea Witch rose up before them, larger than she had been before but just as lovely and terrible.

“Little Fish,” she mocked. “I must admit, you have doomed yourself far more than I could if I had tried. You have spent so long on land that you are as much a human as you ever were a merman, if not more so.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ashe snapped, throwing an arm out protectively as she put herself between Jaskier and the Sea Witch. 

“It means that without powerful magic, he will never again return to his ocean home. He cannot regrow his fins or breathe the water and to try will kill him.” She laughed. “Your heart is so broken though that even on land I don’t think you’ll last long.”

His friends and brothers bristled at the implied threat in the Sea Witch’s tone.

“ _I_ won’t be the one to kill him,” she sneered. “I gain nothing from doing so. But grief is such a powerful thing, and there is some magic, very old magic, that does what it wishes. Good night Little Fish, and good luck.”

Just as soon as she appeared, the Sea Witch disappeared and the crowd of merfolk (and one former merfolk) stared at one another, even those who could too stunned to speak. Soon, Jaskier began to shiver in the cold of the water, body no longer adapted to bear it, and they all escorted him back to shore, towing the little rowboat with him aboard at their center.

“We will fix this,” his brothers promised, clasping his hands in theirs. “Come to us in three days.” Reluctantly, they dove beneath the waves once more and Jaskier watched them go, heart aching, before he made his way back toward the dry warmth of the inn.

~

The appointed night, the trio was camping further down the coast, and somewhere around midnight, he slipped past Yennefer, who was on guard duty, and down the tall grass hills to the sea. He walked carefully out along a natural jetty, boots slipping and sliding, struggling to find a footing against the algae and seaweed that coated the wet stone. Eventually, he kicked off the offending shoes, bare toes gripping only a little better.

Waiting for him at the end was a little wooden rowboat which he took further into the water and met his brothers and friends who were waiting for him.

“Jaskier!” they cried out when they saw him. “We were worried that we wouldn’t be able to find you.”

“We have an answer for you,” Eckhart added, his eldest brother not wasting any time.

“Two of them technically,” Ashe corrected, leading the two to glare at each other until Jaskier tapped the side of the boat to get their attention back. The pair jumped, looking oddly guilty and Jaskier raised a knowing eyebrow, ignoring the pang he felt at knowing there was much he had missed in the kingdom of the Merfolk while he had been pining after his best friend.

“Right,” Lars said, pointedly ignoring the two. “We were thinking, your voice is special. But if all of us offer the Witch something, maybe she’ll give it back. I’ll give up my hands, or my ability to sculpt whichever she decides to take, and Stefan will give her his swordsmanship, and Ashe will give her—“ Jaskier shook his head, broadly gesturing his refusal. He was furious that they would even consider giving up so much.

“But Jaskier…”

He chopped his hands in the air in front of him, the sharp x a final refusal, eyes narrowed in a glare. He would rather be mute forever than let them all hurt themselves so for him.

“Fine,” Stefan, the other of his brothers to come visit, added with a sigh. “If you will not let us help you, at least take this.”

He held out a dagger to Jaskier. The small knife had a dark handle, glossy black volcanic rock carved into a pattern of scalloped scales. Its narrow blade was straight and sharp, twinkling in the moonlight. Hands shaking and face creased in confusion, Jaskier reached out and took the offered weapon.

“The Witch said that powerful magic could undo your transformation. This dagger is enchanted,” Eckhart explained. “If you slay your beloved with it, and the person he chose over you, and let their hearts’ blood drip onto your legs, they will reform a tail and free you from this torture.”

Jaskier reeled, aghast. Couldn’t they understand that he loved Geralt and didn’t want to hurt him for anything?

“I know he means the world to you,” his brother quickly continued. “But if it is a choice between you and him, choose to save yourself. Please. Don’t make us lose you forever. Not for someone too blind to see how wonderful you are.”

Reluctantly, Jaskier nodded, tucking the dagger into his doublet securely.

~

The following day, Geralt found the creature he had been hunting and, with Yennefer’s help, dispatched it quickly. Extremely grateful, the mayor had given them all rooms in his house, and the whole village put together a celebratory feast and bonfire on the beach. Several villagers broke out fiddles and flutes and Jaskier yearned to join him. But when he tried, his fingers slipped along the strings and he fumbled what should have been an easy performance.

Humiliated and terrified, he prayed that Geralt had not noticed, only to be punched in the gut by the realization that the witcher was so lost in the violet eyes of his lover that he paid absolutely no attention to the music or beach around him. Eyes stinging with unshed tears, he had fled to his room and fallen into a fitful sleep, not waking again until the whole house was still and quiet.

In the dark of night, barefoot, he crept into the room that Geralt and Yennefer shared, shocked to find the door unlocked. The sorceress who’d won his friend’s heart had also made him soft, in so short a time, taming the paranoia and tension that had seemed such a staple of the witcher’s personality. How could he ever have dreamed to compete with that?

Drawing close, he found himself staring down at the sleeping pair in the full moon’s light. They looked peaceful, Yennefer lying on her back, dark hair splayed around her in a halo, one hand twined with Geralt’s and resting on her stomach. Geralt’s face was gentler than he’d ever seen, he looked young like this, in a way Jaskier had never considered it possible for him to be, as he pressed against her side. Their breathing was soft and steady, almost synced with each other.

Jaskier pulled the narrow dagger out of his jacket, watching the light dance on the silver blade. He held it in his hand for a long time. Slowly, he twirled it lightly into the right grip to plunge downward, pausing. Then he kept turning so that it lay in his palm as if poised to plunge into himself instead. He sighed, soft as a breeze, and stepped back. He wouldn’t do this, couldn’t. Geralt had destroyed him, but it hadn’t been meant, and he loved the man too much to punish him for finding happiness.

He set the dagger down on the bedside and, impulsively, leaned in to brush a soft kiss against Geralt’s lips, a small, chaste thing full of all his love and longing. He moved away, and then back again to also press his mouth lightly to Yennefer’s forehead, an apology and forgiveness for what each had done, or would do, to the other without ever knowing it.

Then, he returned to his room, finding the little leather songbook he was constantly scribbling in. Turning to the last page, he wrote a note to the witcher, telling him everything, and placed it on the pillow of the bed he would not sleep in.

Finally, he stole from the manor house. As soon as he passed into the yard, he began to run, marveling briefly at how light he felt now on feet that had once been so awkward and clumsy, flying down to the rocky shore. There, resting in the sand as if it was waiting for him, was a little wooden rowboat. His eyes crinkled with laughter even as tears spilled from them.

He sat down and started to row until he reached a spot in the sea that was clear and deep.

Trembling, Jaskier turned to look back at the house by the shore, now a distant speck of light. Somewhere in that little point, the man he loved, the man he had given his heart to without ever meaning to, slept, wrapped around a woman far more beautiful than even a mer-prince could ever be.

He stood in his little wooden rowboat and waved to them, blowing a kiss to their happiness.

And as the sun peaked over the horizon behind him, Jaskier dove into the water, body dissolving into foam on the wave-caps which glittered in the first rays of morning, the color of his love’s hair.


End file.
